bakerstreet | Nesting

[Looking at Wildcard or Mating Instinct, really this is my excuse to go crazy go stupid about buildings, rooms and furniture.]

Luka works and lives in a three story Victorian townhome he built himself. The edifice is red sandstone, there is a second storey white marble balcony that spans the front of the building and shades the carved marble portico above the front door. The posts holding up the balcony’s railing are carved to read ‘Forrester Tailor’ in a sharp, seriffed font. The marble steps up to the shaded porch are sloped with use and end just under a circular marble arch that leads into the shaded porch. Dark wood makes up the porch and the front door, which has a tall fogged and etched window in it.
One corner of the building forms a circular three storey tower with a brass onion roof. On the opposite side there’s another balcony accessible only from Luka’s private bedroom and all over the roofline are clusters of chimneys at the front and back. The whole house is a masterwork of turn of the century masonry. Like everyone who builds their own house and everything in it, Luka is by turns blasé and disdainful of the building but to the average visitor it is undoubtedly beautiful.
The ground floor is dedicated to his tailorshop, where he sells the obsessively embroidered clothes he’s made for centuries. There are tall ceilings, dark red silks on the walls and the heartwood floors are covered in plush Persian rugs. There are globe lights suspended from the tin tiled ceiling that give off warm gold light and all the wainscoting and crown molding one can stand. All the fastenings around the house are brass, etched and beautiful.
The upper floors are for private living, jam packed with antiques, weapons, armor, clothing, custom made furniture, trinkets and baubles and art pieces from several lifetimes of world travel. The storefront has large bay windows as does the second storey tower room, but the rest of the upper floors only have windows on the dark side of the house, facing the neighboring buildings or the dark street. There is a loft in the third storey attic and the basement is stone and steel behind a perpetually locked door.
Out back there is a patio, a small garden, Luka’s obsessively maintained woodworking equipment and a brick wall enclosing the whole back lot. The garden is lush though a little over grown, with patches here and there of freshly turned earth. Despite being dug up somewhat consistently the plants are all well nourished.

{{Absolutely stupid about rooms and furniture? Sounds like you've ordered an Aesthete™️. If Luka doesn't feel any particular attraction to Dorian that's fine, they can just be Decorative Arts dorks together.}}

[Always down for decorative arts talk, no lie. Let’s see where these two go, Luka is all about carpentry and if he’s faced with eldritch horror he’ll really just be like ‘hm yes but have you considered… dovetail joints are a longer lasting and more beautiful way to join pieces that glue or nails.’]

[The shadowcursed lands were uniquely terrifying. All around them was death, darkness, horror, silence, tragedy and decay- yet there was ~~two spots, really~~ one spot that was safe. Blessedly safe- thanks to the efforts of the cleric Isobel.

The encampment. Assembled on the most even patch of land that could have been discovered, the land seemed all the less terrifying by the sight of familiar things. Various colored tents are dotted around the surroundings, breaking up the dread darkness and stillness with color and light. The campfire crackles just as comfortably here as it had within the Emerald Grove's surrounds. Scratch and the owlbear cub seemed just as pleased to bound throughout here in their perpetual game of chase as anywhere else- and, despite appearances, the sight of Withers in the distance thumbing through yet more unending scrolls of names was a reassuring sight.

Most reassuring was the man who lay behind him. The comforting envelopment and warmth of his arms around him, the feeling of his bare torso pressed flush against his back, rising and falling steadily as he slept. Normally, the sorcerer would be in a reverie of sleep himself. The campfire's warmth at his side- the lingering ache of a day spent walking, running, and fighting making his limbs feel heavy- and sheer exhaustion ensured that he slept right through the night.

Yet not this night. This night, his mind is just as heavy as his limbs. It spins and it turns, locking onto the sound of a girl quietly crying in the distance. Arabella. That poor girl- to have lived through the fall of Elturel, Kagha's scorn, Zevlor's betrayal... and now the death of her parents. And to learn that she was a sorceress. Granted yet more adversity in the shape of power she did not want- And to learn that she would be sent away because of it, to be alone.

She had begged to stay. Just like he had, so long ago.]

...Mn-

[A subject close to his own heart. His head rises from the shared bedroll. His gaze moves throughout the stillness of the sleeping camp, seeking the direction of the quiet sobbing, the direction of that poor little girl. To get up, to approach her, to tell her that he had reconsidered. That she need not look to the Weave for comfort, or for belonging. That she could have it here.

He shifts a little. He hears murmuring, and a vague sigh. The arms around his torso flex, and he feels soft hair and the bristle of the other's beard against his spine.]

Apologies.

[He had woke him, hadn't he?]

Edited 2023-09-28 21:35 (UTC)

[ This was a landscape that at times mirrored the melancholy of his own thoughts, though just as it was true for Tav-- it was true for Gale in that he did not felt the cold that perhaps once upon a time he had expected to. That was largely due to the man held within the safety of his arms; a man whom had driven out most of his worries. What was inside him? It felt more endurable now, had since Tav had slipped his hand within his own.

The battles were hard, there was no expectations that it would not be so-- but he drew a certain amount of strength from Tav and wished and hoped with every fibre of being that he survive to the end with Tav.

If not? Well he would at least go to his final rest safe in the knowledge that he had loved and he had been loved in return; not for the reward of being a good scion to the Goddess of the Weave-- but loved for every single thing within him, both good and bad, virtue and hubris in equal parts and equal measures.

There was a stirring that woke him from his slumber and it felt like the ties that linked them added another loop with each passing day, he settled his lips against a neck before he pressed a kiss there on top of skin; when he spoke it was edged in sleep but there was no judgement there; of course there would not be judgement there as his estimation of Tav was exceptional and now, he trusted the other man to do what was right-- even if Tav had to make difficult decisions, they had invariably come to the point where Gale would understand, even if it was less than savory. He knew the heart of this man, had seem it through conversations. ]

I would ask you 'copper for your thought', love--- but I think that your thoughts are worth far more than that.

[ His human ears, if they strained.. they could hear the sobbing of a girl stranded by fate and his arms instinctively drew Tav in closer to him ]

Not tonight, they're not.

[Anxious though his heart may be, Gale's lips upon the back of his neck, the feel of his arms pulling him closer still is as a salve to still it. He loves this man- he knows, now. Deeply, utterly, wholly- down to the tadpole in his head, the orb within his heart. He turns, carefully, sinking back down into the bedding to face the other- placing two gentle kisses upon half-lidded, sleepy eyelids before meeting his mouth.

His fingertips find themselves- as is their habit now- threading throughout and between tresses of the other's long hair- and he is silent. At least for a good, long while- the only sound leaving him being the series of soft, gentle kisses to his mouth. The night- or what they had thought night in this weatherless, timeless, blighted land- was their sanctuary. Somewhere that they had long ago agreed that was in service to themselves, and themselves only, so it felt wrong to bring up the girl.

Especially wrong now- since Gale- since they- had matters most pressing. Mystra's directive. If they were to discuss anything in the time they had promised each other, should it not be that? They had, of course. On most, if not all nights. Tav had turned the same circles each time. Expressed the same denial. The same anger toward the vaunted Elminster as messenger, anger toward Mystra Herself- the same refusals to even consider the possibility of destroying the cult of the Absolute, for with it would come the certainty of destroying this one that he loved- this man that could still do so much good for the world. This man had paid for his hubris dearly enough already.

And as for Gale himself...
He had been a saint. He had corrected certain things, yes. Blunted the edge of the sorcerer's anger with logic. He had explained why the gods- why Mystra- could not intervene for herself. Had even set things straight regarding the intention of a certain cheese-loving archmage in even agreeing to carry the message. He had, as ever, remained solemn. Calm- if unspeakably saddened. Uncharacteristically unsure, uncertain. In two minds. Afraid.

And that- all of that- it was heartbreaking.

In the face of all of it- Tav had found his arguments turn to dust in his mouth. His anger replaced with that same sadness. The same fear. The same desire to cling to the other man as if he might disappear entirely, knowing that it would only be a matter of time until Gale's terrible decision would have to be made. How could he waste even a second of the time they had left together with the thought of other things? Of other people?

Because he cared. And he could not stop caring. Not even now, when he most wanted to. He breaks the string of quiet touches of his lips to the other's, with an exhale. Heavy. Tinged with regret.]

Arabella.

[He cannot help but picture the House of Healing as his fingers continue to weave through curls. Locke. Komira. Their stinking bodies, the flies buzzing around them, as that mockery of a nurse continued to pump yet more poison into their husks.

...The way Arabella had reacted. The way she had shrieked.]

...She reminded me of myself. Just for a moment. Myself before the nautiloid. Before you.

[His gaze is distant, as he looks to his fingers absently curling themselves around and around a particular lock of rich, thick, shining hair. It would seem he's looking through it. Beyond it.]

[ If only his Tav knew how much Gale appreciated his strength and his passion-- even more so while they discussed what to do and the mission and task at hand. Even if Gale was still uncertain of what to do, torn between the good of one and the good of the many; torn between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

One thing it had taught him was to appreciate the time that he had, the weight of Tav in his arms; to enjoy the way that his dear heart pressed kisses to every part of his skin that he could find. Such kisses that had him closing his eyes and then pressing himself even closer as if he could wear those kisses like notches in his heart.. the one that beat despite the Netherese Orb that shackled him to fate.

His own fingers found Tav's hair and he stroked through them, petting him as one may pet a treasured pet and a faithful companion, and yet they both knew it was more then that. ]

You do not speak too much of your time before the Nautiloid.

[ Quietly, of course. This was about Arabella, and yet not about her all the same-- he was using it as a way to understand his beloved better; that he could understand the nuances that drew the both of them together via that tendril of connection of which the Tadpole granted them; but now it was deeper.. woven far more intricately then such could be attributed to. ]

This is for you to share, dear heart however, if you were to share.. I would give you ever bit of the same grace and understanding that you've given me. [ Even when he knew he did not deserve it, what with his hubris that had been a mixture of both selfishness and unselfishness feeding on each other symbiotically. ] But, there is no pressure and never will be.

Well...

[If only he felt like joking, he'd preface the entire sorry tale with something glib. Something like his past never coming up because it couldn't compare to anything an actual archmage got up to. Yet he does not feel jovial. Instead, his eyes move back to the wizard's face, his head tilting slightly.]

As you've ascertained, my heritage is mixed. My mother was human. Father, elven. He was the one I inherited my magic from, by the way. A traveling sorcerer... who called himself an archmage. [A quick exhale. It's both hilarious and sad.] Needless to say, she was quite beautiful. So, he bedded her. And in short order, left her to continue his life of adventure... and the warmth of more interesting beds.

She did not take it well.

[His hand moves then, to the curvature of the other man's ear. Lightly, his fingers trace the shell of it, lingering upon the earring with Mystra's symbol upon it.]

From all accounts, she was hardly the most grounded of women. Prone to fits of melancholy, and periods of erratic behaviour. And from what I've been told, I was hardly the most comfortable pregnancy. She decided, when I was born, that she would offer me to him- and sate his appetite for power by offering mine... and thus, give him no reason to leave.

[Something impossible. Something ridiculous. Something foolish. There was no transfer of power. It was implausible- about as implausible as Gale consuming him. Yet such was the way the common folk viewed those who used magic. Gale himself could likely concur with a few choice rumours about himself that had come up here or there- especially in his less reclusive years.]

...There was an issue, of course. That I appeared perfectly normal. I showed not a trace of magic about me throughout infancy. [A wry smile. Wry, and pensive.] So, she started to procure tinctures that she was told would bring it out. As well as varying alchemical agents. All kinds, really. Belladonna, snakeroot. Oleander, hemlock. Delphinium... you name it. She procured it.

[Gale would likely note something as Tav spoke. All of the plants he spoke of were highly toxic. All possible sublimates and recipes of such, poisonous. And the look in the half-elf's eyes indicates a solemnness, an admission that these tinctures were intended to bring out his magic- his survival instinct- by bringing him to the verge of death. A wound that had healed by now, most certainly. Yet one that had hurt when it was inflicted.]

My first surge happened when I was five. Our house in Heapside went up in flames. Her, as well. By all rights, I should have been burned alive. Or, on the streets as an urchin. Yet someone saved me. A priest of the temple of Ilmater, on his way home from his rounds.

[Ilmater. The Crying God, the The Rack-Broken Lord, The One Who Endured. He who would take the burdens of those who suffered upon himself. He who would ensure any pain to spare others. Likely a large influence on Tav- with the way he conducted himself.]

He took me to Rivington- to the temple. He knew what I was, of course. Knew what I had done, and said that it was not my fault- that the Crying God would take my magic unto Himself- and I would be free to live in His service. Even gave me the name "Tav", as a fresh start. And I stayed there. I even trained to become a cleric. Which by the by, was a resounding failure.

[His melancholy gives way to a smile then, because... Oh. Nowadays, with some space and some distance from each and every time he had failed at the most basic acolyte tasks... it was quite funny. How he could not help but gag when treating the diseased. How he had made an excuse to flee, vomited as soon as he was out of sight, and induced vomiting along the rest of the acolytes via the sound. How once, he had thought that he had heard Ilmater's voice and called no less than three priests to hear Him... but found His whispers and His moans of pain were nothing but rats in the ceiling. How he would be found skipping sermons to be found within the temple's libraries, far more content with seeking knowledge instead of receiving doctrine. As the knowledge bloomed, as he became an adolescent who thought he knew better...

Well. Let's just say certain comparisons to Loviatar had not gone down well. Now it was funny, of course. An upstart acolyte with a few books fresh in his mind deciding he knew better than the entire temple. Back then, it was nothing but.]

Regardless, when I turned 20, I was told that I was grown. That the priesthood and Ilmater Himself had no use for me, and so I was released from my obligation to them- given food, supplies, and some gold... and encouraged to understand my magic for myself. Apologised to, as well. For being kept away from the Weave for as long as they had cared for me.

[And his reaction had been similar to Arabella's. Uncannily so. Shock. Confusion. Fear. Yet that had not changed things. He was still asked to leave. Told that the Weave would provide. That it was not their place to hold him back.

So, he had left. Understanding his magic, of course, could only be done one way. To find his father. To ask. He settles in closer to Gale, absently trailing patterns down his neck with his fingertips. Over his shoulders, his arm. Down, further- across his ribs and his side.]

Years passed. Little of note happened. I adventured- earning payments here and there from bills posted at the Elfsong. Living in a rented room. Barely making ends meet, but managing to put some coins away here and there. But I did find my father eventually. This man who had called himself an archmage had no apprentices. No tower, no vast fortune, and no special power.

[A slight hum, as his fingers change direction, lingering just above Gale's navel.]

He was a fraud. He was no archmage. Never had been. I found him, as a smoking crater. Just another sorcerer that misjudged his magic- and lost control of it. So, I decided to come home. The nautiloid got me as I was returning to Baldur's Gate.

[A wan smile comes then, his eyes moving back up to regard the other's face.]

Now you know everything.

[ The story that Tav painted was as vivid as the magic that flowed through his veins, the hues making him the way he was-- it explained the blood red crimson as well as the blue as vibrant as summer skies amd brought balance within the story, but also it made him ache for he, he had at least a good childhood.. in fact his own childhood had been normal and even happy, he had been a scamp and his mother had loved him beyond reason.

His fingers paused, perhaps in shock at the sublimates given and it probably was by the grace of his magic that he hadn't died. Moral and righteous indignation over such cruelty and a child too. A child, his beautiful enduring Tav-- if that mother had been alive still, despite all of the conscious and sound parts in him, there was that ugly part that knew that he would.. he could easily ended her, part of him wanted to resurrect her so that he could end her-- but the statue of limitations of that was long past ]

I have heard it it said that pain is what makes us and hardens us but.. [ his voice is quiet but there is an edge there as he pulls Tav in close ] There is no way that you deserved that, any of that--

[ His kisses come like rain, as if that made any difference, the way that Tav was vulernable with him. Deep in his mind, he was preparing for possibilities-- it was the Wizard in him-- preparing for the worst possible outcome; the Tower forgotten though it was and in dire need of a cleaning, would be Tav's-- Tara, he would entreat to Tara to watch over him, would have Tara send for his mother to let him know that she had another son now. One who would need her as much as he had when growing up. He was practical despite the romantic centre of his heart, practical enough to want Tav to have a home, even if ultimately he could not be a part of it.

Though he wanted to avoid that, this path was uncertain and no true conjecture could be made. ]

When this is all over, you will have a home, my beloved-- you will have a place that you belong; if there is absolutely anything in this world that I may grant, it will be that, for you.

[ With, or without Gale.

Far beyond being used for power, if Tav choose to stay in the Tower and study magic, he could have that luxury, and Gale was not a poor man by any standards, he had enjoyed his luxuries; soft bed, warm baths, delicious food and good wine. A book to read and a cat to pet, Tav would have all of that in abundance. ]

Luka -OC- OtA, Listen I will use this description until I find someone who is also Building Horny

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Tav | Baldurs Gate 3 | wildcard for @nethereseorb

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Goshiki Tsutomu | HQ!! | m/m

Violet Sorrengail | Fourth Wing

crowley | good omens

Re: crowley | good omens

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aziraphale | good omens

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a follow-up is great!

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